Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Thespian Wank

Every teenage boy is caught wanking at least once. At the time it’s possible to convince yourself that you narrowly got away with it; that the swift parry with the duvet hid the red face, laboured breathing, and the picture of Baby Spice stuck to your fingers. My enthusiasm for the act was matched only by the intense desire to keep it secret.

It was something of an apostasy to find myself, at the age of seventeen, masturbating feverishly in front of three female teachers while they holler blow-by-blow instruction. This wasn’t an emotionally scarring dream, nor a headline on the channel 5 news. I was rehearsing a play.

For our A level drama final performance, two friends and I had chosen a short play about the real-life serial killer John Christie. I was quick to assume the titular role, a part that required self-flagellation with a rubber tube, the wooing of a blow-up sex doll, and the aforementioned violent wank. In the final instance at least, I could go method.

A number of strange rehearsals ensued; spattering fake semen onto my costume, memorising obscene limericks (‘There once was a woman named Heather, whose cunt was made out of leather...’), and my means of self-pleasure being judged by a female panel.

‘Just do what you do at home.’

Alone on stage, exposed by a single spotlight, was the very opposite of my hand and I’s romantic trysts at home. The three teachers faced the set. Before I could argue they bid me go.

Bared to my spunk-splashed long-johns, I initiated five knuckles into a shuffle. Mostly wrist action with a dose of heavy-breathing.

To exacerbate matters, a tape played during this one-sided sex scene of women screeching slurs against my sexual prowess and general manhood. This had been recorded with great gusto by an ensemble of my English, Science, and Drama teachers. The mood was hardly forthcoming, let alone with my educators and figureheads screaming that they want to ‘cut my dick off with scissors.’

‘More violent!’ shouted the brash Australian teacher who I’d only met three days previously.

Wrist action turned to a butter-churn, and I mixed up my vocal performance with some self-conscious growls and moans.

‘Pretend your mum’s coming up the stairs!’

Instantly I was cast back to the frantic duvet lunge, the shame in those maternal eyes, the condemned man’s desperate flapping hands to shake free the cloying evidence. A time bomb of anxiety detonated within me. The mocking voices on the tape rose to a crescendo. My fist beat against my crotch. My free hand clawed and hammered the scenery. I roared and sighed and crowed while the teachers egged me on. The tape finished in a cacophony of female voices, and I competed with the greatest noise of climax I could summon, my head thrown back and diaphragm thrumming.

‘And drop to the floor!’ With a final guttural howl, I fell to the ground, panting hard in an imaginary puddle of my own fluids. The spotlight faded, closing me gently into the dark. In front of the set the teachers jumped to their feet, clapping and cheering my perfect arrival.

For the first, and so far only time in my life, a woman was completely satisfied with the timing of my orgasm.